Good Grief 129

The fragility of a strand of a cobweb is so fascinating.
I sat in the glorious sunshine with a coffee this morning looking at this very delicate one and yet I had only just extricated myself from a dense tangle of webs that had gathered alarmingly and sufficatingly all around me. They were dense and sticky. They fell on my face, in my hair and on my clothes.
They reminded me of all the neural pathways that have built up, crisscrossing, matting and forming the dense webs of who we become. Across generations.
I felt deeply uncomfortable. Suffocated. I had to get out for air.
It would be wrong to say that I cry for 'this' or 'that'. The truth is I am not sure what I cry for other than a deep feeling of lostness that I cannot really explain.

I understand some of what sticks. I understand some of what may have led to some of what I am. But now, as I am faced with sorting the worldly manifestations, the disembodied remains of all those webs, all those peculiarities, all those particular traits, that I had no choice over, other than to co-exist with, learn to manage, survive and to eventually separate from as best I could. It feels particularly difficult because I know I should feel enormous gratitude but in reality it feels so much more complicated. Perhaps that is why I cry.

There is more that I want to say that relates to the tenous web strand. As I sat looking at it, and crying, I tried to understand. It was to do with being so tenuously connected to the world now. Like the child that I was then, so I have become now. Disconnected, self-isolating, struggling to be, struggling to relate to anything or anyone. I miss my husband very much, he enabled me to be more than this, somehow.
I sit here in profound silence, not at all sure of my grip on things. People talk of 'what gets them through'. It is invariably their connections with others, friendships, bonds with people. For me, it is probably only landscape that I have ever felt able to rely on. A sense of place. And even that can become unhooked sometimes. I find myself wondering if I will make it back.